On The Road
by captain kinna
Summary: Harry is finally free to be his own man, but with no idea where to turn, finds himself caught in a storm of crime, drugs, and punk rock. Warnings: AU, non-magic, slash HP/DM, drug use, violence, cuss words
1. Good Fucking Bye

**Hi. Captain K here, with another sad attempt at the idea that's been plaguing me for years. This story is about what would happen if Harry got drawn into the world from which I only recently escaped. There will be eventual slash (HP/DM) and drug use, violence and immediate, constant swearing. Enjoy! -Kinna**

**PS... I do not own even a smidgen of the rights to Harry Potter. JK Rowling does, and she makes hella money from it. This is completely not-for-profit, just-for-shits-and-giggles. I do appreciate reviews, though.**

_**Chapter One. Good-fucking-bye.**_

"There was another one like us, like you and me, Harry," Draco whispered frantically. "You know what they did to him? They beat him _bad_, they... they did nasty things to him... and they _burned him."_

He paused, glancing his lover's face, which was frozen in an expression of stunned disbelief. "Harry! I was there! I saw the whole fucking thing! They'd do worse, too! I can't stand it! They suspect something. You have to get out of here, take the next train, never speak of it again."

"Aren't you coming with me?" Harry said softly.

"I can't. Don't you get it? We can't disappear together. They'd hunt us down. You... they'd think you were too weak, or something. Couldn't stomach the life, they wouldn't go after you. But both of us, together... I can't."

Harry glared at Draco for a few seconds, then stood and stalked away, towards the trees beyond the gang's fire. Draco made his face impassive and joined the circle of people ringing the fire.

"Oi! Scar-face! Where do you think you're going?" a heavily tattooed man shouted at Harry's retreating back.

"Fuck off, Jim. I gotta piss," he shot back.

He didn't stop walking for what seemed like ages. Past the hole the gang used as a latrine, past the clearing in which he and Draco had first discovered what they shared, past the edge of the trees on the other side of the forested strip in which they camped. The tracks lay there, gleaming in the moonlight, endless ribbons of shining metal that led away forever. Harry continued, parallel to the rails, mumbling to himself, cursing Draco Malfoy.

'Doesn't bloody care about anything but saving his own skin, filthy fucking hypocrite...'

The dark form of a coyote ran across his path, just at the edge of his sight. It paused and looked at him, eyes glowing eerily in a reflection of the moon, and scampered into the trees again.

Harry picked up a heavy spike that had come loose from it's tie and hurled it back the way he had come.

"Fuck you, Draco. Rot in hell. I don't give a shit about you."

Harry Potter had been young when things at home became too much to bear. He had lived, then, with his horrible uncle, his anally-retentive aunt, and a particularly loathsome hulking beast of a cousin. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. They owned a modest, but well-furnished house in the suburbs of a small, mid-western town. Vernon and Petunia slept in the largest bedroom, Dudley in one slightly smaller, and Harry in the closet under the stairs. They resented having him around, this was painfully clear from the start. Vernon was constantly giving Harry grief for having been forced upon them.

Harry had never understood how exactly it was his fault his parent's car had crashed through a guard-rail and plummeted into an icy river, seeing as how he hadn't even been with them at the time of the accident. He had been at the sitter's, babbling at the Sesame Street characters on her small television in his high-pitched toddler voice, when the call had come. He could just barely remember the wail of shock and terror that had emanated from the gawky teenager who was sometimes his caretaker. Both of his parent's were dead, whether drowned or killed by the trauma, he never knew. He had been sent to his only relatives, and they had not been kind.

Over the years, they had neglected him, shut him away, punished him for things he had control over. He was never fed as richly as the prodigal son, Dudley, who, being the size of a young grizzly bear, could have stood having a bit less. Vernon was generally abusive, whether it be with words or belt or flying fist. He didn't ever need a reason to be cross with Harry. Petunia, who was obsessed to the point of mania with cleanliness and purity, had tried to exorcise with bleach and prayer whatever demon she fancied was in him, that caused his hair to be untidy and his instant obeisance to falter.

On his eve of his eighteenth birthday, Harry was resolved to leave and never come back. He sat on his cot in the dusty, spider-infested closet beneath the stairs, waiting for the antique cuckoo clock on the mantle to chime midnight. His rucksack, not even half filled with everything he could legitimately say he owned, sat between his knees. He had already pulled on his worn sneakers and jacket, and counted the seconds impatiently until he was allowed to go. Where? He didn't really care. He had seen homeless men sleeping in doorways and wrapped in cardboard on his infrequent trips to the big city, those times when the Dursley's had flat out refused to leave him to his own devices in their precious house with their precious knick knacks. He could manage. He was tough.

Footsteps had thundered down the stairs above him and when they reached the landing, a loud knock had sounded on the closet door.

"Boy! Get up, get out here. I know you're awake." It was Vernon. Harry sighed, having half-expected not to be left to leave in peace. He rose and opened the door. A fist immediately materialized in front of him and sped toward him, faster than he could react. It landed squarely in his face, and he fell backwards into darkness.

When he next was aware of himself, he was lying splayed on the walkway that led from the Dursley's driveway to their front door. Everything hurt. Especially his face. He pulled his hand from his side with great effort and felt his throbbing forehead. It was wet, and his fingers came away red. His cheeks were tender and he knew he must be heavily bruised. Of course the bastards would want to give him a good a long lasting reminder not to come back. He lay for several more minutes, thanking a god he didn't believe in that he was free.

He got to his feet, turned and raised his middle finger at the house and shouted for the whole respectable neighborhood to hear, "GO TO HELL, YOU DUMB FUCKING CUNTS!" and limped down the driveway into the night.

He walked as well as he could, as far as he could, down the roads he knew led to the highway before collapsing and crawling under some convenient thick bushes and passing out.

When he woke the sun was bright and there was a foot prodding his ribs.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he muttered, and footsteps retreated.

'I'm not dead', he thought cheerfully, as he sat up and rubbed his filthy glasses with the hem of his tee shirt. Looking around, he saw that he had made it to the very edge of town during his nighttime wanderings. He could hear the sound of hundreds of cars and eighteen wheeled semi-trucks zooming across asphalt off to his right. He stood, pulled his pack over his aching shoulders, and set off towards the cacophony of noise.

He had been walking slowly backwards down the shoulder of the highway with his arm out and thumb extended for over an hour before anyone stopped. The car that pulled onto the shoulder was old, rather rusty, but still recognizably pale blue, and was driven by an matronly woman who seemed rather shocked that she had pulled over.

"What on earth happened to you?" she asked him, as soon as he peered into the open window.

"It doesn't matter, honestly. Are you going toward the city?"

"It does matter, young man. Get in, I expect you to tell me the whole truth before we're there." She tried to smile and he nodded and slid into the padded seat gratefully.

"I would never pick up a hitchhiker, usually," she stated, breaking the initial uncomfortable silence. She had gray hair that was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a rather stern face. "But you just looked so... _needy_, that I couldn't go by. What on God's green earth beat you up so bad?"

"My uncle. Maybe my cousin, too. It's really not a big deal. I'm never going to see them again..." Harry trailed off.

She looked at him sharply, one eyebrow raised. "Child abuse, my dear boy, _is_ a very big deal."

"I'm not... not a child. I just turned 18. That's why I'm leaving, you see?" Harry stammered. "I guess they wanted to tell me in more than words never to set foot on their property again."

They spoke of more pleasant things during the next hour of the commute. The woman was called Mrs. McGonagall, and she taught physics at a high school in the city. She complained of obnoxious teenagers and low pay, but Harry rather thought she didn't mean the things she said.

They finally stopped at a filling station just inside the city limits, and she bought a first aid kit inside, then took Harry to the restroom and washed the blood from his face. He protested, telling her he could manage himself, but she insisted. When the grime and bodily fluids were gone, he looked at himself in the cracker mirror and nearly fainted. His face was almost entirely bruised, complete with black eyes and a fat lip. But what was worse was the deep, jagged cut that ran from his temple to his left eyebrow.

"Fuck..." he breathed.

Mrs. McGonagall shook her head and squeezed his shoulders.

"You'll need stitches, I think. Oh... you poor thing..."

Harry stared at his reflection as long as he could stand it, then followed the woman back to her car.

"I sincerely hope you're destined for better things, good luck, Harry," she said gravely.

Harry grimaced and thanked her, before saying goodbye, and watched her drive away. He looked around at the tall, grey office buildings and masses of people hurrying to and fro in the bright morning. He chose a random direction and fell into step behind them.

...

**More to come if interest is shown. Hell, even if interest is not shown. It's about bloody time I cranked out this story.**


	2. New Beginnings

**Sorry about the wait, guys. I only really feel like writing when I am in a certain kind of mood, like when you sleep all day and don't take your medication, then start listening to the smashing pumpkins upon waking up. Enjoy! -Captain K**

**Disclaimer: I don't have the rights to Harry Potter, I am not making money from this story, I apologize if JK Rowling hates me.**

…**..**

Harry felt like he was walking in circles. Everything, from the tall, imposing, gray buildings and the blank-faced men in suits, to the urine soaked alleys and homeless scattered across the sidewalks, seemed to repeat itself before him, no matter which direction he went. He began to feel oddly disconnected from it all, like he was invisible, he obviously didn't belong there. He was neither a sharp dresser nor an indigent, he had no talent or initiative, he was nothing. No one seemed to pay any attention to him, he was such an insignificant figure in the whorl of important people and purposes. Even with his ravaged face, no one looked twice. It was creepy.

As the sun began to rise higher into the smoggy sky, the temperature began to rise. Harry marveled at how the businessmen didn't ever seem to break a sweat. They stayed outwardly emotionless and composed, even while barking into their cellular phones.

Here and there were homeless men sitting against the sides of buildings, holding out battered cups, asking for change. Harry wondered how much of what they wanted was money, and how much was a plea for a new life. Some of them reeked of alcohol, others of old sweat and urine, and still others of an awful scent that Harry had no words to describe. Not many people contributed to the cups. Harry didn't either. The twenty dollars Mrs. McGonagall had pressed into his reluctant hands had to go toward something important. He was in the same boat as these homeless men, broke and lost in a huge, unfeeling city that would chew him up and spit him out as it had them.

After what felt like several hours, the scene changed. The buildings shrank as he walked further and became less impersonal and more homelike. Apartments and duplexes huddled together in the shadows of skyscrapers and people more like those Harry knew from home clustered outside doorways and lounged on balconies.

Harry was beginning to feel them staring at him, though he kept his eyes cast downward and tried to deflect attention. He was surprised into looking up when he nearly walked into someone. The young man, not much older than he was, it seemed, was leaning against a store front window with a cardboard sign that read 'Ain't No Nation Like Donation' in shaky letters.

"Holy shit, kid, what happened to you?" the youth asked.

Harry hesitated and couldn't think of any good words, so he shook his head and made to keep walking away.

"Hey! Come back! I was talkin' to you!" the boy shouted after him.

Harry paused, then turned back.

"I haven't got any money, sorry," he said, hoping that this was a good enough answer to be left in peace.

"You haven't got any manners, either," the boy spat back. "I'm Joey, and I want to know who would ever fuck up a kid like that."

Harry was taken aback. This boy, with his patched overalls and messy hair, had no reason to care. Harry couldn't think of anything better to tell him than the truth.

"My family... they really didn't want me around."

Joey nodded as if he understood. He considered for a moment, then said, "You look alright, you want a drink? It ain't often you get to break free from the oppressors."

Harry assumed the youth meant alcohol, which he had never touched, having seen Uncle Vernon's anger increase exponentially when he had downed several glasses of scotch. But still, he had never been invited to do anything social with anyone before, so he figured he might as well see what came of it. He shrugged and said, "Sure."

Joey folded his cardboard sign and stowed it in a rather large backpack before grabbing Harry's hand and half-dragging the confused boy down the street and into a liquor store. Harry stood, unsure of what to do with himself, while Joey scanned the rows of bottles in the refrigerated glass case along the back wall of the shop.

"What do you like?" Joey asked.

"Dunno, never had any," Harry replied, trying to sound casual.

Joey stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled.

"You're in for a rough night, my friend."

He reached into the fridge and pulled out several bottles that were, to Harry's eyes, patently too large to be allowed. Joey paid, mostly in change, to the cashier's annoyance, and led Harry back out of the store and out into the street. He obviously knew where he was going, so Harry took a leap of faith and followed, hoping that wherever they were headed was safe.

They walked down another street, turned several corners, then went along a dirt path through the trees behind an apartment block, ending up in a clearing next to railroad were milk crates and pieces of cardboard strewn about on the ground, obviously meant for sitting on. Harry sat, leaning forward in apprehension as Joey threw the brown paper bag in which he had carried the bottles over his shoulder.

"Biodegradable, paper is," Joey said, defensively. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long drink from it, then passed it to Harry.

Harry said nothing, feeling awkward. He raised the humungous bottle to his lips and sipped it gingerly. He belched, then began to take larger gulps. It wasn't bad. A bit bitter, but cold and bubbly, and he decided he liked it.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, Harry feeling increasingly loose and happy, pouring out his story to Joey, who in turn told him about his life.

Joey came from an unloving family as well, he had left when he was still supposed to be in school, and had 'hit the road'. His hometown was somewhere on the west coast, far away from the city he now found himself in. He had hitchhiked and stowed away on freight trains, meeting up with and parting ways with other 'traveling kids' frequently, begging for money to provide him with food and beer, sleeping outdoors, and not showering for weeks on end. Harry thought it sounded like a pleasant way to live, with no responsibilities, no one to care whether or not he behaved, and the freedom to go wherever he wanted. He began to consider the possibilities.


End file.
